QAnus Capitol Pervert Psychopath Botendaddy Escapes to Detroit Rock City! Biden Shocked!

Belle Isle, Strait of Detroit

PA DEPT OF AGRICULTURE COMMUNIST SUBVERSION SECTION 322 EAST CARACAS BOULEVARD HARRISBURG COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA

“I am F. Pearson Luzerne, IV. We are going to catch this goddamned pervert Botendaddy! Call the FBI! Call INTERPOL! Catch that Bolshevik scumbag!”

Shroake Luzerne

Detroit Ruins

“Boss. We have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere.”

Shroake Big Dumb Agent Guy

“Oh I know where he is: Detroit Rock City.”

8 Mile. No really.

Shroake Luzerne

It’s getting better…

Safe house, Detroit

General Motors

“Marijuana, do you smoke it? Cannabis Sativa? Wacky Weed? You are in a Detroit Safe House with the sex-crazed QAnus Botendaddy! Hamtramck Hash! Only the finest! Now get over here little &$¥£€ and Smoke my Weed! Ooh! Little Stalker girl I didn’t know you liked to get wet! Angel Dust…”

Shroake the evil Botendaddy

He’s under here

Door is kicked in by ATF Federal Gummint Agents and Sowiejt Spetsnaz shock troops. Agents violently beat the Botendaddy with penis-shaped Federal law enforcement truncheons in a flurry of erotic thumps of ultraviolence. Agents begin to spontaneously ejaculate due to the Extrême sexual beating of the defenseless semi-conscious Botendaddy.

TO BE CONTINUED

You won’t have Botendaddy to Kick Around Anymore! Wallace Shocked! A 4.02 Mile River Run

“Readers are deserting in droves! Your hits are down to zero and your likes are in negative territory. Is Koodaytah! Backatoodaleff! Koodaytah! Pig 🐷 soooweee! Koodaytah! Klayshaw! No one wants to hear about your tasty 👅 adult diaper or your bleached tattooed yummy 🤤 anus. No-one understands this site. You suck.”

Shroake the No-one Cares Lady

“That’s right! You suck, you stupid old Botendaddy! You sexy silver fox 🦊.”

Shroake the Swole Bro’ 😎

I decided to run. My readers had deserted me. It was their fault that I only put out shitty mind-numbingly stupid content.

“I am the grand diva 👩‍🎤! You shitty stand-ins!”

I Shroake in full drag with weepy mascara, stamping my foot 🦶 with Extrême drama.

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We ran along the River again. Our first mile was good. Not the best of the year. But good.

We roatched downtown whence we turned around at the two mile mark. Our two mile time was also good whilst two minutes off our best of the year.

We decided to pick up the pace to see if we could have a good three-mile time and 5k time. We made both.

The sun set at 6:13, we were racing the sunset to avoid the Wämpyrërei. Deutsche Vampires 🧛 are known to frequent the trail. They descended in droves, killing human victims and sucking blood 🩸 leaving a ghastly trail of ghoulish shocking fabulous death 💀.

I told you the trail was creepy!

I yawned with disinterest at the Shroakes of the dead and dying. One of the Wämpyrëi approached and jogged alongside me.

“I am a Hollywood 🏳️‍🌈 romantic vampire 🧛 with various bullshit Hollywood powers. I can smell, nay taste your bleached, tattooed, spermatozoa-soaked anus. Ah the taste 👅 of it! My heightened vampire sense allows me to smell caked dried out spermatozoa.”

Shroake Weird Gay Trail Vampire

“What’s with the gay vampire? What kind of people are you hanging out with?”

Shroake the NCL

“Icky poo poo 💩 yucky 🤮 girl! Go away! I’m melting! Look at my hair! Botendaddy, like the reader will never live to be as old as he looks!”

The Vampire faded away with a flurry of bat 🦇 noises. We stopped at 4.02 miles in the mysterious gloaming.

Into the gloaming

“Fuck this, let’s get in Botendaddy’s in-ground Jacuzzi at his penthouse.”

Shroake the NCL

”Iced Coconut 🥥 milk 🥛 tea 🍵 with boba 🧋?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

In Defense of ‘Road Movies’

Effete Intellectual Critics always prefer some movie with a two hour political/philosophical esoteric discussion between two mind-numbingly dull characters.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Oh how they hate the road movie. With their derisive insipid prose. Their utter hatred of the common man.

Photo by Sergi Montaner on Pexels.com

Want to destroy a good film? Just call it a road movie! The elite literati despise train travel the most.

I mean for example, in American Literature: Last of the Mohicans, Grapes of Wrath, Tom Sawyer, On the Road? Road Novels! It’s not a legitimate genre? (Pronounced Jaaaah).

Are these so-called critics really that stupid? Did they go to school? Do they have more advanced degrees than I do? Are they more New York than I am? Were they born in New York like me? Did they once live in Murray Hill or Brooklyn? Does their Mom and Grandmother and Great-Grandmother come from the Bronx? Then f@&k right off, you faux New Yorkers! You insipid, prancing, preening, pseudo (Pronounced Sway-dough) intellectual, weeping drag-man-diva, self-involved twats with your ‘Road Movie’ derision.

These are not my top road movies, just a selection.

  1. Silver Streak is the Gold Standard of Road Movies. AMRoad. Runaway train. Intrigue. If you don’t like it, you are a stupid dope and you can shut up. Score by Henry Mancini – are you kidding? Gene Wilder, Scatman Carrothers, Ned Beatty, Jill Clayburgh, Richard Kiel,Ray Walston, Richard Pryor. “I left my Jag in Kansas City.” “Are you afraid of flying?” “For God’s sake, learn to keep time!”
  2. The Blues Brothers.
  3. The Grapes of Wrath. Brilliantly filmed in fade in fade out vignettes in brilliant chiaroscuro.
  4. Little Miss Sunshine. Alan Arkin.
  5. The Motorcycle Diaries. Even if you don’t like Communists, you will love this film.
  6. National Lampoon’s Vacation.
  7. O’ Brother Where Art Thou.
  8. Planes, Trains and Automobiles
  9. Duel
  10. Almost Famous.
  11. Spies Like Us

Almost Heroes and Westward Ho are incredibly bad but funny. John Candy and Chris Farley.

Peace be the Botendaddy

The Neighbor

Woodpecker Forest Road was probably an old Indian Trail for a thousand years before the Dutch settled Mohawk Valley. Now it was paved. Settled again with recent zip codes and party lines replaced by individual dialing.

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We had a little house across the street from the dairy farm. The back yard stretched 200 yards before it hit the tall pines of the primeval forest that stretched all the way to the Adirondacks and then the Canadian border.

We would get fresh milk in a bottle that had been placed in the aluminum cork lines container. Sure you can still get milk delivery in a bottle, but it will cost you.

My dad was a WWII Veteran, flew in B-17’s and then the beloved C-47. He talked of flak, people sucked out of windows at 25,000 feet, daylight bombing runs. He had bomber jackets with his bomber group logo. But now he was a professor at Cornell. I only ever knew the Professor. He was like a God to me.

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Our neighbor was an older man, a retired Cornell professor born in Georgia. He had been a marine in WWI. Not the goddamned sissy wars that I was in, with our CHU’s and our Green Beans Coffee trailers and our Internet cafes.

On Veterans Day, he would wear his still perfect Marine Uniform in the parade down Main Street.

Every Saturday it seems, it would start as soon as my dad walked outside. The old man would sniff the air:

“I smell something pretty! F4990t5! F4990t5! Ice Cream Soldiers! World War II! F4990t5! You smell pretty boy!”

Shroake the old Marine, as he tended to his Malamutes at his small kennel.

“Shut up you old f&$k!”

My dad would shroake back in good humor.

Photo by Alex Azabache on Pexels.com

“Belleau Wood, Boy! Real men! Not a sexual man-F4990t among us! Not like those fancy aero-planes with you Smoochy-boys in leather jackets! With your pomade in your hair! Ah the smell of it! Sweet like a woman!”

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Then my mother would come outside. And the Professor’s demeanor would change.

“Ah Mrs. Botendaddy! How are you this lovely day! How are the boys!”

The Professor would Shroake in his Savannah Georgia accent. Then my mother would go back into the house.

“Belleau Wood, boy! A handful of U.S. Marines against a million Huns! Mustard gas! Water-cooled machine guns! Big Bertha! Eddie Rickenbacker…They didn’t get too far, those dirty Krauts, let me assure you! Now we got flowah powah! Hipp-eyes! Bra-burners! Sexual Lesbians! Glazed-eyed dope fiends! Hun Volkswagens! Yummy sweet-hot cross-dressing fruity boys! With their Vye-Yet-Nam! Ah the taste of it!”

Shroake the old man. Then he would sniff the air and look around. Then my dad would look at him.

“Have a good day old Marine!”

My dad would Shroake

“Have a good day, ice cream soldier!”

Shroake the old man.

The Life and Death of Häär Doktor Doktor Pareczenethy: a parable of love in the face of Utilitarian Social Irrationalism

People who endlessly preach about anti-semitism and the Holocaust miss the point.

The Holodomor, (the deliberate and specific mass murder of the Ukrainians – it was not mass starvation), the Armenian Genocide, the Communist genocide in Russia, the Rohingya expulsion, the murder of South African Boer farmers, Pol Pot, the Yazidi genocide are all the same phenomena – the dehumanization and then murder of a population for social or economic supremacy.

We have to ask ourselves, how did the Communist Revolutionaries in Russia of 1905 become the genocidal killers of 1918’s CHEKA who stole people’s property, tried to destroy every aspect of Russian Othodoxy and Islam, send entire populations to Gulag and march people into ditches because of ideology? How did the idealistic philosophers of 1770’s France like Jean-Jacques Rousseau become Robespierre’s Guillotining maniacs of 1793?

Pareczenethy said in a 1943 missive that “before we ask how common Germans became shrieking National Socialists, we must honestly at the very least, answer the first two questions. Hence Existential Nihilism. A world not without ideology, but without enforced ideology, rather with absolute freedom of thought.”

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Jews and Communism. Some fair number of Jews were certainly involved as some viewed it as a liberation theology, but this political class was not representative of the Jewish population at large.

However:

Friedrich Engels not Jewish

Kiel Sailors Revolt of 1918 (Jews were not allowed in the German Navy all Catholic and Protestant)

Volga Sailors – almost all Russian Orthodox

Stalin, Lenin, Beria, Molotov – none were Jewish.

Gesell and Egelhoffer of the Bavarian Marxist State were not Jewish.

12,000 German Jews were KIA in WWII. That means about 80,000 wounded. Which means that almost the entire German Jewish draft-eligible population served in the War against racist Wilsonian hegemony. And after the war they were all holocausted anyway.

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Pareczenethy was a Nihilist Existential Philosopher. He was from Breslau aka Wroclaw aka Vratislav. He spent most of his life in a Bayernische Reserve Artillery Unit under the beloved Schwule König Ludwig, then Weimar.

Pareczenethy served until 1935 when he was summarily expelled from the German Reserve Army as an undesirable Ontological classification due to the Utilitarian Social Irrationalism of the NSDAP.

Pareczenethy, despite being a Jew, having served five years in the Western Front whilst on leave from the Philosophy department of Universität Augsburg, served in the Freikorps that liberated Bavaria from the Bavarian Sowiejt State in 1919.

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He refused to leave his beloved Germany and he yearned for a return of the sacred Kaiser. His family refused to leave as well. Eventually they were deported to a Concentration Camp.

At the death camp, Pareczenethy saved the lives of four priests whom the Nazis were attempting to starve to death when no-one else would help them.

Pareczenethy sneaked food and gold seal Czechoslovak Cigaretu to the priests for over a year and for this, he was shot. He chose to be shot by his old friend, Häär Doktor von Anstädt, a fellow philosopher who was then a camp guard.

The day Pareczenethy was shot has been memorialized in film 🎥 notably the Botswanan-Slowwakien 1966 black and white media social neo-realism treatment by John Foster Imbadwe.

It was a a gray wet rainy day, 33 Fahrenheit with a steady light rainfall into the glazed mud the day that Pareczenethy was executed. It was a bad day to be alive in a place like that.

Somewhere it was summer and the sun was out, but not there. However, Pareczenethy’s mind was always free. Sun or rain, winter or summer was irrelevant like the panoply of human existence under a Utilitarian Weltunschauung of Social Irrationalism based on Falsche Ontologicalische Klassificationen.

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Pareczenethy viewed his own imminent death as utterly irrelevant. He asked his friend to never feel bad about shooting him as he was merely an irrelevant existential vehicle of the universe. He died utterly unimpressed, with Czech Cigaretu dangling precariously from his filthy, hairy dominant hyper-masculine mouth.

Pareczenethy wanted his death to be as meaningless as his life. His daughter Fräleinnen Doktor Pareczenethy in the famous Vancouver Conference Lectures on Social Philosophy in 1960 at Burnaby, stated that:

“He espoused Nihilist Existentialism and he viewed all social and life events from the viewpoint of irrelevance, that insobeing true to oneself, once all false human constructs are stripped away, is all we truly have.”

Pareczenethy in a 1934 lecture in Breslau said:

“I am neither brave nor coward. If both good and evil acts are equally irrelevant then why not choose good in the face of Social Irrationalism? If hate and love are equally irrelevant, then why not choose love?”

“Nie jestem odważny ani tchórzliwy. Jeśli zarówno dobre, jak i złe czyny są równie nieistotne, dlaczego nie wybrać dobra? Jeśli nienawiść i miłość są równie nieistotne, dlaczego nie wybrać miłości.”

Young people across the world are flocking to Pareczenethy and his simple Philosophy of ‘Everybody Love Everybody’ (Všetci milujú všetkých). They are refusing to accept that any person is not equally valid for any reason at all.

More and more in these divisive times, young writers, scholars and dreamers from all over the world are seen gathering in silent meditation at the Pareczenethy statue in Szczytnicki Park in Wroclaw due to a simple inscription on the plaque: “dlaczego nie wybrać miłości?”

A centenarian priest and concentration camp survivor named Boleslaw (Pronounced Full-ah-Sly-You) is seen every Friday leaving a flower and a Czech Gold Seal Cigaretu at the statue as he has for every week since 1946. He never speaks, he merely smiles.

Photo by Alexandr Podvalny on Pexels.com

dlaczego nie wybrać miłości?

The Forgotten Story of J.P. Ping, the Chinese-American Cook of the 107th Field Artillery Regiment in the Great War


A single photo in a 102 year-old Army Yearbook led to this story about a Chinese-American, the first in his National Guard Regiment. This is the story of Zhai-Peng ‘J.P. Ping’ Chang of 3rd Street in Downtown Pittsburgh.

Allegheny River near Pittsburgh Tinted Dauggerotype from photo plate process June 1915

A construction worker downtown found the book last year. It was in a closed-off storeroom of a Chinese Restaurant on 3rd Street in downtown Pittsburgh.

On the Battery B page, of the 28th Keystone Division Book of the Great War, there is a tiny black and white picture of a Chinese cook named Pvt. Jay Ping.

A years’ worth of research at the Carnegie Library, The Pennsylvania Military Museum, the Soldiers and Sailors’s Hall and the Hillman Library produced interesting results. We were most helped by a Lorna Chang of Squirrel Hill who shared photos, letters and other memorabilia.

Pittsburgh was always multi-ethnic, from the time that Chief Guyasuta was friends with Bro. George Washington through the Industrial Age and then to today. In 1915 Pittsburgh had another 60 years, two generations before the industrial collapse that started in 1975.

Chinatown was bordered by 3rd Street, Ross Street and the River. At the turn of the last century the Chinese had made it to Pittsburgh along with the first black migration from the South and the Jews of the Settlement and the Slavs from Eastern Europe following the Scots, Germans and Irish.

The City was black with soot. Ping’s birth name o was Zhai-Peng but he was known as J.P. among the gweilo. He was a good cook. One day in 1915, at the age of 17, his white friend MacTaggerty had joined the Pennsylvania National Guard. He looked magnificent in his uniform. Ping was impressed.

Mac invited him to meet the commander of Battery B at the Armory on Emerson Street. Shadyside, also home of Millionaires Row was magnificent. Stately homes of those who made it rich in industry.

Old Chinatown, Downtown Pittsburgh, 3rd Street and Ross

They met up on Ross Street by the Coroner’s office. They took the streetcar all the way down 5th Avenue from town. The streets were always crowded with workers going to and from shift. Wives shopping in town. Cops dragging vagabonds and ruffians to and from the stately jail.

It was a Friday. The smog was so thick that the streetlights were on. The troller ride was a long one. Through Oakland and then Shadyside. The trolley was crowded and loud. A dozen languages could be heard. Czech, Russian, Yiddish, Italian and who knows what.

They departed the trolley at Negley and they walked past the stately homes of Protestant Pittsburgh. The soldier and the Chinese cook.

They walked into the near-deserted Armory, up the stairs to the Commander’s Office. Captain Porter.

“Sir, Pvt. Ian MacTaggerty reporting, Sir!”

“Who’s the fellow with you?”

“His name is Shy-Ping, he’s a cook at Chang’s Dragon Restaurant on 3rd Street. He goes to 5th Avenue High with me. We graduate December.”

“We need a good cook, son. You know how to cook American food?”

“Yes Sir! I was born in Allegheny City, Sir. I can cook anything!”

“So you want to join the National Guard? We’ve never had a Chinaman in the Regiment before. You might feel a bit lonely.”

“Sir, I’m an American, I’ll never be lonely!”

“OK son, let’s get you to sign up! You want to sign up today and take the oath?”

Ping raised his right hand and he swore the oath. The Captain escorted the pair around the magnificent bee armory. They looked at the cannons and the stables. Then the crossed Emerson street to visit the artillery mules grazing on the parade field. It was a great day.

The two friends graduated Fifth Avenue High School in December of 1915. A yearbook found in the Carnegie Library Archives memorialized the event.

Hunt Estate, Wilkins Avenue, Squirrel Hill, February 13th, 5:30 P.M.

“Have you boys ever handled a horse?”

Asked D.L. Hunt. After seeing the boys petting the horses through the fence.

“Our family had a horse cart when I was little, but we have a truck now.”

Said MacTaggarty.

“We have mules at the Regiment, Sir. He’s magnificent though, Sir.”

“Are you Boys from the Armory?”

“Yes Sir. I’m with Battery B, Third Platoon and J.P. is our cook.

Said Mac.

“It’s named after my father. The Armory, that is. He died in the Spanish-American War.”

“I am very sorry, Sir, he must have been a very great man.”

Said Ping

“Battery B. Why don’t you boys come in out of the snow and have a scotch.”

The soldiers nodded and they followed Mr. Hunt through the ornate iron gate up to the English-Style stone mansion. They cleaned their boots off on the boot brushes by the door and they walked into the Foyer.

“We had English Spaniels for hunting. This is a nice painting we had done of the dogs. You boys will have to come hunting with us this year. Maybe pheasant or grouse. We have a place out in Fayette.”

Mr. Hunt escorted the guardsmen around the estate. It was simple and magnificent.

“So what do you boys do?”

“In the civilian world, I work at my dad’s saloon in Lawrenceville. In the guard I’m on a cannon.”

“I’m a cook in the Guard and I’m a cook at my parents restaurant downtown, but I want to go to school to become an architect.”

“So I’ve got a cook and a bartender?”

“Sir, if you want we can come out here, set up a bar and cook Chinese food for you and your friends. We will make something special like duck 🦆.”

”Let’s do that.”

“The horse is following us, Sir.”

“There’s an older story about a drunk in New England who gets on his horse after a night imbibing at the Inn. A friend says: ‘how are you going to find your way home? Then the drunk says: ‘Don’t worry old friend! The horse knows the way.’

San Luis, Arizona 14 June 1916 Mess Team Tent Bravo Battery 1/107th Feild Artillery Regiment

“This place is ridiculous. It’s 114 degrees. Is that even possible?”

Asked Ping.

“It’s not pleasant, I’ll say that. It’s beautiful out here though… whoever imagined we would be in a place like this. I like the desert at night. It’s real Wild West, like in the Zane Grey novels.”

Said Mac, as he got his serving of breakfast.

“It is maybe a great thing to say that we had a chance to be here. Cooking for this many people is quite a task, though. I don’t want to be a chef in the civilian world when I get back. I want to go to school and do something interesting with my life. It’s OK for the National Guard, but I don’t want to run my family’s restaurant. I want to be in one of the big office buildings downtown like the Frick Building or the Clark building.”

Said Ping

“I could become a cowboy. Or maybe not. Might be fun for a week, but then it would just not be fun anymore. I want to go to school too. Be a college boy. I could meet a lot of girls in my uniform.”

“Mac you would make a lousy cowboy. The mules don’t like you at all, just like the girls. The Chinese girls like my uniform, until they find out I’m a cook, then they call me the gweilo’s coolie.”

“You need to find another kind of girl then, maybe a Slovak girl or a Polish one. Not an Italian girl, they will murder you probably.”

“I met a girl, but she’s an Anglo-Saxon. She’s going to Radcliffe next year. She’s smart, rich and beautiful. But I’m a Chinaman. Born in America, but nonetheless I’m a Chinaman. We’ve been writing to each other. I tell her about being in the Wild West. She loves my stories. I met her at the Episcopal Church in Shadyside. My family are Church of England from Kowloon City, British Empire.”

“Well, it’s a new Century. There’s a hundred nationalities in Pittsburgh. Who’s going to say something? A Czech? A Jew? A Negro? A Welshman? It shouldn’t matter anymore. I met a girl too. She’s half-negro, half-Swiss. She’s a Presbyterian like me. My parents love her. My parents were born in Scotland. They were very poor. They hate the Anglo-Saxons, they think all people are the same in Christ.”

“I know I’m late, but you boys have anything left to eat?”

It was Captain Porter. He was covered in dust and he looked tired.

“We got trail food tonight! I’ve got tortillas and chili. I learned how to cook it from the locals. Have a seat, Sir.”

Ping served the Captain and the three sat around one of the mess tables.

The Captain had a newspaper.

“What’s going on in the world, Sir?”

“Well, while we’re chasing Pancho Villa all over Old Mexico, the war is getting worse in Europe, might be more than a million dead this year. They’re fighting in Africa too. Sinking ships in the Atlantic. I wonder if we’ll be in it. We all might not see home for a while if that’s the case. I hear we may have more training once we get off the border just in case. Seems we aren’t keeping our word to old Lafayette if we don’t help our friends in France.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Drilling 1 inch diameter bore weight plates to fit vintage iron 1-1/16th inch diameter York Barbells and Dumbbells

The one-inch bar is now the standard. It is thin and unimpressive. Usually chrome plated and sad. They also have some kind of auto-locking collar instead of hand wrenches or bolts.

The old York or Dan Lurie bars were 1-1/16th inch in diameter. They had collars with little bolts that required a wrench.

1-1/16th inch diameter dumbbells

I bought an old style York barbell and dumbbells set from circa 1955. It also has the old sliding sleeves.

1-1/16th inch diameter iron dumbbells

The problem is that most of my one-inch bore plates are not tooled for the 1-1/16th inch bar.

One inch bore plates

So I purchased sanding drums from Benchmark Abrasives.

Sanding Drum 3/4 inch diameter

You take the plate and you put it in a metal vise. Wear eye protection and a Biden mask.

Vise

Attach the drum to a drum attachment for your drill. Choose high speed if it is a variable speed drill.

Drill with drum

First drill a bit around the outside of the bore hole. Then try to keep it even. Check the depth with a 1-1/16th inch diameter dumbbell bar.

It may take 15 minutes to even get the dumbbell to fit halfway in. Once the bar goes over halfway through the bore hole, flip the plate 180 degrees and drill from the other side.

Try to keep the drum flat and even. Go continuously 360 degrees around the bore hole so you don’t favor any one side. Once the dumbbell bar fits the whole way through the plate without getting stuck, you are done.

Thicker plates like a 25 or 50 pounder will take very long time, so be patient. Thinner plates will be very quick.

Clean up the metal dust then wipe down the bore hole and dumbbell with a moist cloth.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Hammerin’ Hank Aaron dead at 86.

Everybody loved Hank Aaron.

Everybody Loved Dr. J.

Everybody Loved Secretariat.

Everybody Loved Billie Jean King.

Everybody Loved Tower of Power.

Everybody Loved ‘The Sweet’

Everybody Loved ‘Smoke on the Water’

Everybody Loved Funk.

Everybody Loved Reggie Jackson and the Oakland A’s.

Everybody Loved/Hated Howard Cosell and Muhammad Ali.

It was the apolitical ‘Freak Era’ from June 1970 to June 1975.

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Like Arena Rock and everything else from the Post-Hippie, Pre-Disco, Last Year of Nixon these athletes defined the ‘Freak Era’

Hank Aaron would have been considered ‘Square’ a few years earlier. Mired with the at that time awful Atlanta Braves in their non-existent market, he was quiet, unassuming and dignified. Like the stonemason toiling away on a long short stone garden wall and every day the wall grows longer and more elaborate and the Mason keeps silently working. Then he builds a beautiful garden courtyard with a gate.

America was forgetting Vietnam, moving on from the Nixon era getting high with all the trappings of hippies (bead curtains, incense, weed, blacklight posters, tie-dye, waterbeds, sandals) but minus the divisive politics, youth trying to solve racial issues on their own by reaching out instead of by edict, reading National Lampoon and Mad Magazine, building the best reel-to-reel stereo system and giving up on television, radio going from AM to FM and then there was Hank Aaron.

Everyone rooted for Secretariat. America’s horse, BJK America’s tennis star and of course Hank Aaron. On cold April days all of America tuned in to our almost forgotten national pastime to see if he would hit 714 and 715. And he did. And we all loved him. He was uniquely ours.

R.I.P. Hank.

The Very Public Rehabilitation of the United States Army National Guard

In 1965 President LBJ (Pronounced Elle Bee 🐝 Zschwaah) decided that in order to mute American 🇺🇸 public opposition to his War in Vietnam, he he would refuse to mobilize the National Guard to go to fight in Southeast Asia. Instead, he used a combination of unhappy draftees and ‘lifers’ (and many more earnest soldiers).

Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

Most soldiers were patriotic Americans who wanted to do their part in the fight against up to that point, the growth of genocidal Communism.

Those ‘citizens’ who exhausted their college deferments or who weren’t classified 4-F (Unfit for service) were able to use influence or timing to join the National Guard to avoid the draft.

Most National Guardsmen were honest patriotic citizens who joined their hometown unit as a family tradition back to the American Revolution.

But the image of National Guard as a place for rich young draft-dodgers, actors, politicians and athletes to hide out from the War, had a devastating impact on the image of the National Guard.

Case 1: A group of potential draftees in Ohio paid $5,000.00 for forged documents to present to the draft board showing that they were enlisted in the Guard or Reserves.

Case 2: A Hollywood-heavy California National Guard unit in Burbank was ordered to Vietnam in 1968 and about 50 of the soldiers and officers with wealthy and powerful connections caused legal and public political battles to cause the unit to never leave the country.

Case 3: Professional sports teams were accused of offering tickets and other perks to draft boards or Guard/Reserve authorities to shelter no-show athletes in the Reserve or Guard.

Case 4: 71% of applicants to the Guard or Reserve said they were joining to avoid the draft as of 1966. By 1970, the number of Guard Reserve plummeted as people no longer feared being sent to Vietnam.

Case 5: General Abrams was concerned that the lack of use of the Guard contributed to the ‘everyone pitch in’ concept of citizenship. Several Guard units were then sent to Vietnam in 1968 including two Artillery Battalions, an Infantry Company and some Engineer Battalions and some individual call-ups.

The image of the Guard suffered. It was too late. But if that wasn’t bad enough, the stories of draft-dodgers, hiding their long hair under short-haired wigs, smoking weed, sitting in lawn chairs next to beer coolers at Guard Annual Training as real men died in Vietnam, was rightly or wrongly burned into the national consciousness and became the butt of decades of comedians’ lame jokes.

Next were the urban riots, Detroit, Watts, Newark. Scenes of Guardsmen with their rifles shooting looters in urban ghettoes as black men fought in Vietnam’s jungles were a symbol of a fractured society.

Not long before, the Guard had been heroes for escorting black children to school in Little Rock, Mississippi and Alabama.

But then came Kent State. The image of National Guardsmen, ‘weekend warriors’ back home seen on Televisions around the Nation instead of serving in Vietnam, whilst shooting down docile college girls from 500 feet away destroyed the Guard’s image completely. Neil Young sings ‘Four Dead in Ohio.’ Wow. Bad look.

The National Guard fighting at the Marne in WWI or storming the beach at Normandy in WWII or battling fanatical Imperial Japanese Soldiers hand-to-hand in caves in the Pacific were now long forgotten, if not completely erased from the American psyche.

Then came the movies:

‘Kelley’s Heroes’ 1970, depicting guardsman as causal warriors with a desire to rob gold from a bank while collaborating with a German Tank Commander.

“I got a favor to ask ya. Will you quit crying? I haven’t even asked ya yet!”

‘Southern Comfort’ 1981, where The Guardsmen antagonize Cajuns and almost all get killed:

“It real simple. We live back in here. This is our home, and nobody fuck with us.”!”

‘The Execution of Private Slovik’ 1974 where a listless cowardly Guardsman deserts his unit and is executed by firing squad.

“Army Life don’t agree with me.”

Finally, the pièce de résistance: ‘First Blood’ 1982. Green Beret Rambo vs. a team of pompous, unmotivated, out-of-shape long-haired Guardsmen who fire a LAW rocket at Rambo and then go have a beer, whilst having their truck and Machine-Gun stolen.

“Cathcart, Robert A. Get out of the Truck!”

“I’m not going in there! I only do this on weekends!”

The next humiliation was Operation Desert Storm. The Wall fell. The Cold War was over. Fewer soldiers were needed. The budget battle was about to begin. The 48th Brigade of the Georgia National Guard deliberately stymied by Bush’s Department of Defense.

Biased evaluators picked at every little issue during National Training Center Manoeuvres that the 48th had passed only months before.

In the end, the 48th was denied the opportunity to fight in their glorious little patriotic war to liberate Kuwait. The active Army needed to keep budget and shame the National Guard to make sure they got the smallest piece of the pie. The ‘Real Army’ vs. The National Guard.

Then came the great drawdown. The Wall fell. 1992-1995. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers and officers eliminated from the ranks. Huge pullout from Germany… and then there was nobody left.

The rehabilitation started with Peacekeeping missions in Bosnia and Kosovo. The Active Army had finally run out of soldiers. Entire National Guard Divisions and Brigades were sent overseas for the first time since World War II.

Then, after September 11th, Operation Noble Eagle saw Guardsmen prominently protecting travelers at airports and train stations, guarding our sacred symbolic monuments and vulnerable cities on National Television.

Next came Afghanistan and our ill-conceived invasion of Iraq. The Army didn’t need the Guard as of mid-2003. It was all wrapped up! Mission Accomplished?!?! Then it all went to shit by year’s end.

Now it was combat deployments of National Guard Brigade Combat teams. Every single one! To Iraq and Afghanistan.

I was in Iraq with 1st Cavalry at the time, but the Guard looked pretty good!

Guardsmen now came home with the Red Badge of Courage: Purple Hearts, Combat Patches, Silver Stars, Combat Infantry Badges, Combat Medical Badges, Helicopters, Artillery.

Solemn burials at cemeteries of the fallen of the National Guard, the ultimate honor of an American soldier, denied since the Korean War.

Citizenship was finally restored after 50 years of degradation: 1946-1996.

Currently, massive deployments by the National Guard of almost every state and territory in support of COVID-19 efforts show the Guard as a public health resource in a time of national crisis.

And now, in Washington, D.C. at the symbolic Capitol Building, 25,000 National Guardsmen all over the news. Defenders of the Republic once again.

Citizenship Restored.

To everyone responsible for the 50 years of shame and humiliation? From the Pentagon, to the Media, to the Politicians, to the Evaluators, to Hollywood?

Fuck You.

“Your Honor” Showtime. Tortuous to Watch. Kvodo? Muerte de un Ciclista?

It’s hard to watch. I don’t hate Brian Cranston and I don’t love him. He was at his best in ‘Trumbo’ a movie about the Hollywood Blacklist, the singular most horrific event in human history worse than any genocide or pandemic…

Photo by Giorgio de Angelis on Pexels.com

I started ‘Breaking Bad’, but I found it unwatchable after one season. Shame on me. I just didn’t like it. Then before that was ‘Malcolm in the Middle’ it didn’t get as good as it could have, so I gave up after half a season.

Your Honor is based on some Israeli show I’ve never seen called ‘Kvodo’. And apparently based on a Spanish 1955 movie called ‘Muerte de un ciclista’

Also life imitates art. Many years ago a kid on a motorbike was hit by a car and killed in New York City. His father was a reputed mobster. The man who hit the kid didn’t run and even tried to apologize, but was allegedly killed by the mobster.

It’s filmed in New Orleans which provides a great backdrop. City as a character.

At any rate, I was kind of hooked after the first episode. The actual crash scene is brilliant and disturbing. The show starts with that ‘what would you do?” Scenario.

I’m actually sympathetic to the Baxter family. They lost a son and they have no closure. Would it have been safer to turn himself in given the real life incident in New York? 50-50. It was a pure accident. No drugs, no DUI. Careless perhaps. How would you feel if someone killed your child, even if by accident? What if you are dealing with someone who doesn’t bend to the rules of society and who believes in an eye for an eye? You can’t predict.

It’s an old morality play. Do you do what is right if the consequences are worse than the truth? If you found a roll of $3,000.00 in cash would you turn it over to the cops? If you hit a Lambo in some parking lot where there were no cameras and you had no insurance would you tell anyone?

When is confession worse than the truth? Let’s be honest, some times it is. Some people can’t handle the truth.If they never know, it’s OK.

If you were a freedom fighter for some noble bullshit cause, would you confess to the evil sexy government you don’t believe in or trust and then get your balls cut off? Not likely.

Good example. When being gay in the Army was a crime, I would have never ratted anyone anyone out (if hypothetically someone told me in confidence… hypothetically) Also, I’m not a fucking rat 🐀.

Best example: a driver is drunk. The driver hits someone with his car on a lonely road. If he stops and renders assistance, he is busted for DUI murder. If he runs and later claims he thought he hit a dog, then he might get vehicular manslaughter or leaving the scene of an accident, but not DUI.

I actually did hit a deer, or rather a deer hit me the other night. Ran into the side of my car. I was going 30. He limped off.

It’s called a ‘Little Lindbergh Law’ where the penalty actually encourages worse behavior. (Death penalty for kidnapping anyway, why not kill the witness?) So they repealed the law.

I made it to episode 6, but I kind of hate it. It gets very unrealistic with idiotic intertwined plots each with an increasing level of risk. It’s up to you.